Intersecting Pathways
by celcette
Summary: AU. Mini-series. They walk different paths: she on the overpriced highway and he through the affordable subway, for the sake of metaphorical expression. But when love isn't it always love? brings their paths together, it's something on its own. Something new. Something real. Something precious.
1. Prologue

_Prologue_

* * *

She has shining, perfectly highlighted golden hair to match her golden jewelry.

He has raven black hair that matches the many dark evenings spent running around a twenty-four hour diner.

She sips expensive, French champagne.

He chugs cheap beer.

She has bottomless credit card capacities.

He has empty bank accounts.

She dates men based on social standing and company asset.

He loves girls based on the nature of his heart.

She glides with elegance.

He trips due to lack of coordination.

She speaks five languages.

He barely speaks at all.

She frequents at Saks Fifth Avenue and Bergdorf's.

He rushes past Saks Fifth Avenue and Bergdorf's to window shop for the latest H & M men's line.

She lounges daintily across a warm fire with a hot, soy cafe mocha with extra whip cream.

He prods his flat's heater furiously whilst clinging onto convenience store purchased green tea for warmth.

She takes pride in being Quinn Fabray, wealthy heiress to Fabray Conglomerates and inevitable future wife of Finn Hudson, high school boyfriend and her equal in wealth.

He wishes he was anything but Mike Chang, whose aspirations of becoming a renowned dancer/choreographer has led him to much disappointment in Chicago.

They walk different paths: she on the overpriced highway and he through the affordable subway, for the sake of metaphorical expression. But when love (isn't it always love?) brings their paths together, it's something on its own. Something new. Something real. Something precious.

It's a cliché of a story: rich girl and poor boy fall madly in love and deal with the societal hardships of such a mad love. It will end with one of these two things: a happy ending or a tragic one. This story practically writes itself, practically explains itself. But what makes it different? What makes Mike Chang more than just a dreamer with his dream far from his reach? What makes Quinn Fabray more than just a social butterfly trapped in society's unrelenting cage?

The only way to truly judge that is to witness it first hand.

* * *

**Author's Note: **This is just an idea sparked by my friend, Joss, on Tumblr. It's set in an alternate universe and should be fairly short. I'm anticipating just five chapters, give or take. I'll be updating the Honey Bee very soon, it's 3/4 done and just needs to be wrapped up and finished when I find the time during my vacation. It's not abandoned, I promise! Just a short hiatus! Review!


	2. Chapter 1

_Chapter Two_

* * *

Their paths first intersect at the Hudson's Avian Welfare Charity Ball hosted in the banquet hall of the Four Seasons Hotel. Numerous men and women, dressed to the nine's, ascend down the large, marble fleet of stairs and into the awaiting vultures with cameras and inappropriate questions. There is no shortage of champagne or fine cuisine, just raw intent to act charitably towards birds and ducks.

"Champagne," slurs a large man, presumably in his late seventies, towards Mike. Quick on his feet (perhaps too quick), he moves through the sea of people with much speed. It comes as no surprise to Sam Evans, beloved best friend and pitiful witness to Mike's clumsiness, when Mike pours the contents of the champagne flute onto the ground.

"Crap." Mike says curtly, about to whip out the towel skillfully hidden in his breast pocket when Sam soars in, grabbing his arm and dragging him behind the bar.

"That's the second glass you've tipped over tonight," Sam has to be admired for his unwavering support.

"Short of five and we'll have the fiasco at the Pierce's estate," that statement manages to get a weak smile from Sam, much to Mike's relief. He has already heard the tedious spiel from his boss about his lack of coordination; he doesn't need it from his best friend.

"Here," he hands him a fresh champagne glass, nodding towards the still waiting man. "Slowly, bro," Sam is quick to add. Mike nods passively, walking towards the man with a fresh glass. A man in a fine tweed suit quickly intercepts him.

"I'm sorry," Mike says quickly, fearing that a splash of champagne would have smeared this man's black tux.

"Oh no, apologies are all mine," he snaps his head up, surprised by this man's warm smile and even warmer aura, despite his stature, which demands respect. "My father has a habit of over indulging in champagne. If I hadn't stopped him, I fear I would have had to listen to his escapades at brothels in Vietnam," continues the strangely kind man. Mike shifts uncomfortably, waiting for the punch line. Seeing any of these privileged socialites acting like actual human beings is too good to be true. Why be a human being when you can swim in luxury without peeking down to those lower than you?

"Russell, relax," another voice, this time a woman's with impeccable features for her age, interrupts.

"Mrs. Fabray, thank you for coming to my aid. A second longer and I fear little Russell would have started an AA session himself," jubilantly jokes the old man, who appears by Judy's side and affectionately pinches Russell's cheeks.

"Why don't you just take that for yourself?" suggests Judy. Mike glances to his left, then to his right. Then behind him. Then below him. Oh. She's talking to him.

"I-Uh, I can't drink on the job," Mike excuses quietly.

"Papa, maybe you can take a page out of this kid's book," Russell suggests tauntingly, jabbing his old man in the ribs. Mike hopes they don't break from the pressure.

"Speaking of kids, yours is popping out soon, best get cracking," the elder man wraps his arm around Russell, shaking him slightly before pushing him towards the marble staircase. Without waiting to be excused, Mike quickly finds refuge behind the bar. He'll just pour drinks for the evening. Yes. Surely he can't screw that up. He pops open a fresh bottle of champagne, moving back and allowing the large burst to flow into a few choice glasses. Mike gently pours the specified amount in each glass, before he's jostled out of his mundane activity by Sam popping up to refill his tray.

"They were nice," Mike comments quietly, staring at Judy and the elderly men who speak fondly to one another. Sam doesn't look up from his tray, but nods in acknowledgement.

"'Course they are, they're the Fabrays," Mike waits for Sam to expand on his knowledge of the bizarre family, when time stops.

* * *

"The Armani or the Cavali?" inquires Finn, holding up two ties before his bored girlfriend.

"Neither, you're supposed to wear a bowtie," says Quinn, letting out another low breathe before turning back to the mirror. She adjusts the bodice of her light blue dress, hand stitched by Donna Karen herself. to allow for some form of exhalation. Sighing, Finn appears behind Quinn, places his hands on her hips and staring into her penetrating hazel eyes with much concern.

"Quinn…" Finn trails off, communicating his concerns through the reflection of her eyes. It's no secret that their relationship was sparked by their childhood friendship, fostered by their eager parents and maintained by society's continuous interest. It's no secret that behind closed doors, the most romance they share is drinking imported, Columbian coffee and watching the Simpsons DVDs. It's no secret that Finn loves her, and she loves him too. If only if they were in love with each other.

"Yes, Finn?" she uses her admonishing tone, as if daring him to say anything other than 'I'll wear the bowtie'

"I just want somebody to love you," he says with an air of finality, before his somber expression immediately turns into a well practiced grin. He nods towards the double doors. She shakes her head, indicating that she'll make her entrance separate from his. As he is the son of the Hudsons, it's pivotal he speaks of the charity and the many efforts to secure avian welfare. Quinn can't help but snort. Who cares for ducks?

She waits for all of five minutes, waiting until she's sure they've reeled from Finn's entrance long enough. Decisively, she grabs hold of the skirt of her long dress, hiking it up with grace as she moves through the hallways. Sucking in a deep breathe, she places her Manolo Blahnik covered feet on the marble flee of stairs, beginning her walk. She smiles courteously at the crowd, and enlarges her smile for the cameras. Despite the many people and their ongoing conversations, they remain reasonably quiet during her walk.

That is, until the sound of ten champagne glasses fall to the ground. While the crowd remains vaguely unaware, she immediately finds the spot of the incident.

And it's beautiful.

A man, just her age, clumsily duck his head underneath the bar. She stares, unmoving. Damn, he has to stand back up. To her surprise, he presses his chin along bar, his body still hidden behind the bar. She spots his eyes. They're a common shade of dark brown, but have an uncommon quality that keeps Quinn staring with much awe. Their eyes meet in the heat of it all, and she's sure her heart has ripped itself out of her chest, smearing her designer dress in blood and is now leaping through the crowd before landing on the palm of his hand.

"Q!" calls Russell, meeting her halfway up the stairs before wrapping her arm around his.

"Daddy, who's that?" asks Quinn, still staring into those perfect eyes.

But she's pulled from her reverie by a number of photographs, a tizzy of mind numbing conversations but she can't shake him off.

* * *

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," repeats Mike again and again, following the head caterer with a pleading stare through the bustling kitchen.

"Do _you_ have ten crystal champagne flutes?" demands the hefty Japanese caterer, by the name of Ken Tenaka, irritably.

"Um…" _No_, what struggling twenty five year old with nothing but a tiny flat and a few things to his name owns ten crystal champagne flutes?

"Thought so," grumbles Ken.

"It was an accident," Mike feels the need to add.

"Everything's an accident with you," _That's true_, Mike thinks quietly to himself. He dodges a pile of fine China plates and finds his way back to Ken's side.

"I'm sorry?" Mike tries pathetically.

Sighing, Ken runs his plump fingers through his sweaty black hair. He shakes his head doubtfully, glancing to his side before back towards the dessert platters.

"You're a good kid, Mike… But, I don't think that this is gonna work out," Mike can feel his eyes bulge out of his sockets desperately. He has lost so many part-time jobs already, he can't lose another one.

"I'm sure it will," they whip around in unison, the honeyed sound of the very statuesque blonde that put Mike in this very situation capturing their attention. Even up close, she's a mystical goddess, from the flow of her hair to the pure snow skin tone. Mike can feel his heart beating rapidly against his chest, begging for escape.

"Excuse me, Miss, you can't be in here," Ken says, motioning to the door.

"But I am," Mike feels the corners of his lips twitch upwards. He admires her confidence, her air of elegance and the way she can be so courteous and yet ever so demanding at the same time.

"Miss…" hesitates Ken

"How do you know it won't work out between you and," she turns to Mike with those penetrating hazel eyes. Such gorgeous, bedazzling eyes.

"Mike," he answers breathlessly. Maybe it's just his imagination, but he swears he can feel her chest heave up and down with breathless delight.

"How do you know it won't work out between you and Mike?" she repeats.

"He's not very good at this," Ken answers lightly.

"I beg to differ," she says with pressing authority. "I bet you do as well," she stares him down with her gaze, before he finally relents.

"Y-Yeah, of course," Ken sputters out, placing a large grin on his cheeky face before excusing himself quickly.

"I think you scared him off," it's odd how at ease he feels in her presence. Here she is, a beautiful woman acting as her savior, and he feels nothing but a light heart and an overflow of words.

"I thought it would take a bit more than that," she admits, her cheeks burning in an adorable tomato shade. She extends her gloved hand towards him. "My name's Quinn," he clasps her hand with his sweaty palms, grateful that the silk fabric prevents her from realizing it. _Quinn_. It sounds like a melody when she says it.

"I'm Mike,"

"I know, you told me," Quinn says pointedly, raising her perfectly plucked eyebrows at him.

"Right," he murmurs foolishly under his breathe.

And that's where it begins; a simple handshake that sparks their story.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Review, my dears! The next chapter should be up fairly soon!


	3. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2_

* * *

The second time their paths intersect, Mike is biking rapidly through the streets of Chicago. He carries with him a backpack, which drapes across his back and is wide open, a batch of sunflowers resting within it. Mike glances down at his watch as he stops at a crosswalk. _Six twenty two._

"Shit," he immediately whips through the crosswalk, desperate to arrive at his destination.

Since the Hudson's Avian Welfare Charity Ball and his encounter with the sunny ball of light and beauty that is Quinn, Mike has adapted a bad habit. Day in and day out, on his way out of work, he would make a detour: the Fabray conglomerates tower. He would purchase a batch of flowers (this time, he goes with sunflowers since they remind him of the warmth he feels around Quinn) and venture to the tower, just in time to see Quinn exit the building and enter the town car waiting for her. He fools himself into believing that the very flowers in his backpack will find their way into her grasp night after night, to no avail.

It's ridiculous as well, since he has her cell phone number scrawled on a pad of hotel paper.

Mike stops right in front of the Fabray conglomerates tower, sucking in the tinted winders and luxurious lobby from across the street. He glances town at his watch. _Six twenty eight._ Two more minutes until Quinn's driver predictably arrives in front of the tower.

He pulls out his cell phone, greeted by two messages. The first, from Sam.

**Sam Evans 6:04PM**

- Our place stinks of dead flowers. Just give them to her already.

Mike rolls his eyes and scrolls past the message onto another one, this time from an unknown number.

**Unknown 6:24PM**

- Sunflowers are my favorite

This catches his attention. Mike's just about to reply when someone coughs internally behind him. Whipping around, he catches sight of the very woman he's been watching for almost two weeks. She sits in an outdoor table at Starbucks, the distinct cup in hands and her Samsung Galaxy in another. Her tassel of curls are held back with an elegant hair piece. Her slender figure is covered by a black coat that ends right against her hip, giving Mike a good view of her pencil skirt and her stockings covered legs.

"Quinn," Mike's quick to acknowledge, smiling bashfully towards the ground.

"I really do like sunflowers," Quinn comments, standing up from her seat and approaching him. She reaches behind him, her warm body pressed against his, and pulls out the flowers from his backpack.

"They're my favorite. But I would have only pretended to like the gardenias you got for me two days ago, since I don't like what they stand for," she smirks at him knowingly, burying her perfect ski-slope nose in the sunflowers. He realizes that she has known all along, which only makes his cheeks burn further in embarrassment.

"What do they stand for?" asks Mike conversationally, surprising himself yet again with the ease in their conversation.

"Secret love." Quinn states, staring at him intently now. "I don't like secrets. I don't like hiding," she says simply, putting the flowers down so she can meet his eyes.

"When you want something, you want it openly. When you like something, you like it openly. When you _love_ someone, you love them openly. No secrets, that's how I want things to be," he raises his eyebrows, both impressed and confused by her words.

"I like you," he says it out of the blue, without hesitation or fear. If Quinn hates secrets, then he'll let her in on the one that he's most secretive about. Although granted, when he comes back to his loft with another batch of flowers, Sam catches wind of the fact that he's into _someone_. Mike catches her cheeks turn crimson, wanting so desperately to run his thumbs along it.

"That's no secret, you wait for me everyday with flowers. I sort of figured," Quinn says sarcastically.

"How do you know they're for you?" Mike asks, crossing his arms cockily. Her hazel eyes are alert with fear, but he quickly adds; "They're for you,"

"Thank you for the flowers," she admires them again, before meeting his eyes.

"I want you to ask me out on a date," he likes this whole no disclosure thing. He likes knowing everything that goes on in her pretty little mind.

"Why can't you?" Mike challenges lightly.

"Because if I do, I'm afraid I'd make a fool of myself," he chuckles. A woman like her could never be a fool.

"That's impossible," Mike comments. She can only shrug, before picking up his phone from his hands and renaming her cell phone number.

"I'm only slightly offended my number isn't saved on here, by the way," she says lightly, but from the way she says it, he can tell she truly is.

"I wanted to ask you out in person," he says soothingly.

"Across the street, watching me leave for home, isn't _in person_," she's witty and honest, a dangerous combination.

"Will you go on a date with me, Quinn?" he thick eyelashes flutter up at him with unquestionable longing. She doesn't hesitate.

"Yes," Mike can feels his heart palpitating against his chest in eagerness, before she speaks up again.

"There's just one thing, though." Mike's alert now. "It's just something I think you should be aware of," Mike nods her on. "I _technically_ have a boyfriend," from the expression on her face, she's expecting him to throw her an ultimatum, but it doesn't come. He can't seem to judge her or see any fault in her, but only want to understand her more.

"Why _technically_?"

"We've been dating since high school, and although we know we aren't in love or even really together, we do it out of convenience," Mike nods again. Maybe that's how the rich folk like her and that Finn Hudson guy do it, but that isn't how he wants to play it.

"You said you don't like secrets, right?" he asks her rhetorically. When she nods, he continues.

"Sorry for saying it, but if you're pretending to date a guy for convenience, you're being rather hypocritical," Mike's never this open, this honest or this confrontational. But he is with her, and it's exhilarating. Quinn gulps guiltily, chewing on the edge of her lip.

"You're right," from what he can tell of this strange girl, saying such a thing isn't something she's accustomed to.

"It happens every so often," Mike says charmingly.

"So what you're saying is that you don't like me because I'm a hypocrite?" she asks him warily. Mike only shakes his head.

"What I'm saying is that if you don't want _us_ to have any secrets going into this, you shouldn't have any with your own boyfriend," she nods, agreeing.

"Then I won't, I'll tell him," Mike feels a smile tug against his lips, and he makes no motion to hide the glee in his eyes.

"Saturday?" Mike suggests.

"Saturday." Quinn confirms.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Review, my Fabangers! Review!


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